The maid’s fingers dug into my arm like claws. Her eyes were wild, darting between me and the massive white colonial behind her. December wind whipped her black uniform against her legs as she pulled me away from the front door.
“Mrs. Callaway!”
Her voice cracked.
“Don’t go in. Leave now. Immediately.”
I stared at her, my hand still clutching the cashmere scarf I’d spent an hour wrapping in silver paper. The bow was perfect. I’d made it perfect for Desmond—my son, my only child—who hadn’t spoken to me in 12 months until 3 days ago when he’d finally called.
Hi viewers, kindly tell us where you’re watching from and what time it is.
What? The word came out confused, distant. I don’t understand. My son invited me for Christmas dinner. I’m supposed to—
“Please.”
She glanced back at the house again. Through the floor-to-ceiling windows, I could see golden lights spilling across marble floors. A Christmas tree stood in the entrance hall, at least 15 feet tall, covered in white lights and silver ornaments.
“I could lose my job for this, but I can’t let you walk in there. Get in your car. Drive away. Don’t come back.”
My knees felt weak. I was Beatrice Callaway, 73 years old, and I’d driven 2 hours from my apartment in Bridgeport to this mansion in Greenwich, Connecticut. For a year, Desmond hadn’t answered my calls, hadn’t responded to my letters, hadn’t acknowledged my birthday or Thanksgiving, or the 50 voicemails I’d left begging him to tell me what I’d done wrong. Then last Tuesday, his voice on my phone—flat, cold. Come for Christmas dinner, mother. Saturday at 6:00.
This woman was telling me to leave.
“Is Desmond okay?”
My voice shook.
“Is he hurt? Is something wrong with—”
“He’s fine.”
Her accent was thick—Hispanic, maybe. Her name tag read ANISE.
“But you’re not safe here. Trust me, I have a mother too. I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t warn you.”
Behind her, a shadow moved across the hallway window. Tall. Male. My breath caught.
“Go.”
Anise’s eyes filled with tears.
“Por favor. Just go.”
I stumbled backward. My heel caught on the edge of the driveway, and I nearly fell, catching myself against the hood of my 10-year-old Camry. The car looked tiny—shabby—next to the circular fountain in the center of Desmond’s driveway. Next to this house that probably cost more than I’d earned in my entire nursing career.
Anise was already moving back toward the side door, fast, her sensible shoes crunching on the gravel. She disappeared inside.
I stood there frozen. Cold air burned my lungs. My fingers had gone numb around my car keys, and I realized I’d been clutching them so hard the metal had cut into my palm. A thin line of blood welled up, bright red against my pale skin.
Move, I told myself. Move.
I yanked open the car door and threw myself inside. My hands were shaking so badly I dropped the keys on the floorboard. I had to bend down, scrabbling in the dark under the brake pedal, my breath coming in short gasps that fogged the windshield. Found them. Jammed the key into the ignition. The engine started with a rattling cough. I threw it into reverse and hit the gas too hard. Tires squealed. Gravel sprayed.
In my rearview mirror, the mansion stayed lit and perfect and beautiful. No one came running out. No one stopped me. I made it to the end of the long private driveway and pulled onto the shoulder of the main road. I couldn’t drive further. I couldn’t think. My whole body was shaking now, trembling so hard my teeth chattered.
The wrapped gift sat on the passenger seat. Silver paper. Perfect bow. I’d bought that scarf three weeks ago at Macy’s, spent money I really didn’t have because it was cashmere and Desmond deserved the best. I always gave him the best—even when the best meant working double shifts at Hartford General, my feet swelling in my nursing shoes until I could barely walk. Even when it meant eating ramen for dinner so he could have piano lessons. Even when it meant taking out loans I’d only finished paying off last year so he could go to Yale.
My phone was in my purse. I should call him—demand to know what was happening, why his maid had looked at me with such fear, why she’d begged me to leave—but my hands wouldn’t stop shaking. I sat there with the engine running, heat blasting from the vents, and tried to breathe. Just breathe. In through the nose, out through the mouth, like I used to tell panicked patients in the ER. You’re okay. You’re safe. Nothing happened—except something had almost happened. Something bad enough to make a woman risk her job to warn me.
The story doesn’t end here — it continues on the next page to discover the rest 🔎👇
